by Javi Reddy
Jay exhaled as if he were smoking a heavy cigar and Layla nodded lightly. James continued: “Aaaaah, yes. The biggest day in Rosebank’s history…”
7 September 2013. 7:50 PM. The final
Soweto will always be a city of paradoxical proportions. Whilst it was plagued with poor housing and infrastructure, a high unemployment rate and general overcrowding, the metropolitan township still managed to set trends in politics, fashion, music, dance and language. The influence of those trends resulted in the township developing unique sub-cultures.
The city’s influence had a large Afro-American type footprint, one that the youth chose to follow. Yet, somehow, this influence was adapted to a more local condition. The speech, the dress-code—it was where Mzansi met the Western world. The paradox of the city had always been there—a city which owed its birth to the treachery of the apartheid in South Africa, but one that also served as a point of defiance to those that were oppressed.
The township was blessed with the discovery of gold. Johannesburg City Council racially segregated black labourers who wanted to work in the mines as well as other industries by relocating them to the outskirts of this township, whilst white people would live comfortably in the city centre. But Soweto had a way of calling out to its people.
In spite of the attempts by the government to restrict the influx of black workers to the city, many of them made their way across anyway, from neighbouring cities and the countryside, in search of employment. And people built a home against all odds. Today, on this very special day of all days, it would pay homage to yet another paradox.
The contestants of this year’s Staffords Cup Final could not have been a more appropriate matchup in keeping with the enduring theme of the township. The rich would play the poor. This was not David vs Goliath, for who exactly was David: the less wealthy Inkanyambas who were in the form of their lives? Or the well-off Rosebank team who were not at the peak of their powers?
The Ace Ntsoelengoe Sports Arena had started out as a small-time project that the government had begun work on in the early 2000s. At first, it was merely a side thought. South Africa was still not being taken that seriously on an international front, especially with regard to the most popular sport in the world-football. With a bid put in place to host the 2010 World Cup, the Minister of Sport and Recreation knew that the country had to raise the bar which is why he challenged sports’ federations throughout the land to speed up development and transformation.
Within days, the Ace Arena project was transformed from a bit part role in the country’s sporting development to a leading star in the show. The arena would help kids to avoid pitfalls such as drug abuse and violence. More importantly, it empowered a hitherto overlooked group. The way townships had been set up, during apartheid, meant that there was little space for proper fields or sporting facilities.
Unlike South African suburbs, township schools did not have the facilities within their reach, which is why the Ace Arena was viewed as an attempt to level the playing field, so to speak. It was well and truly running now. Clean change rooms, taps with flowing water, proper sanitation systems—these were often unavailable in Soweto. This meant that the Ace Arena was more than just a sporting arena—it was an architecture of hope.
James’ body ached in places he did not know existed. Vinny’s men had made sure of that. He stumbled through the fenced off car park, clutching his bruised ribs in the warm sunshine. There were hardly any parking spaces open, even though it was still a few hours before kick-off. Everyone shuffled for the good seats.
James struggled up a host of cemented stairs before he got to a wide tunnel. He continued through for about 50 metres before he came to the entrance of the pitch. He needed a ticket to get it in. The ticket allocation was a 50-50 split, to ensure that Rosebank and the Inkanyambas had equal representation. Naturally, he had no cash on him. He wasn’t even sure if he had all of his teeth intact.
“I can’t let you through, sir,” a lady in a neon yellow car-guard-like jacket told him. “Aaah, come on, sugar. Does it look like I’m having a good day?”
No charm or wit would part her from her dour face. “It’s okay, he’s with me.”
James couldn’t make out the fat man behind him at first until he soon recognised his favourite barman from the Ice-Cream Parlour. Good old hippo neck. He had an extra ticket, God knows why. James was buoyant to see his fat face. They shuffled through a turnstile and made their way to the stands. The fans were not allowed to mix. Whilst it was great that each set of supporters had their own section, James couldn’t help but feel that the separation was also a way of highlighting the great divide: the difference in class between the two groups. James sat right in the middle of the Rosebank supporters after the barman got him a boerewors roll and a can of Iron Brew to wash it down.
“So, what happened to you? Shouldn’t you report it to the police?”
No buddy, I can’t walk into a station. That would be suicide. Even for someone as reckless as me, James thought.
“Rough night out. All good fun though,” he winked at the barman.
The fat man’s neck shimmered in the afternoon sun as he blinked at James, trying to figure him out. James caught a glimpse of the Rosebank starting line-up doing their warm-ups in a circle, not far from the crowd. Jay was not there. His eyes scanned the white touchline and made its way to the boy standing in his sports jacket with Amritha.
He needed to tell Jay about his father. But how do you tell a boy something like that? And at a time like this? Amritha had her arms locked around his neck.
She kissed him and it was a beautiful, long and hopeful kiss. The type only the young share when their love is new and covered with a blind hope that it might last forever. James took it as his sign: Not now.
He would have to deliver the crushing news later. James walked back to his seat, praying that even after the worst news in the world, Jay would still manage because he had something that everyone wanted. He had another person whose gaze seemed genuine enough to create a belief that she would always be there for him. Surely, that was enough? It had to be.
Zondi whistled towards his troops who promptly joined him. They strode over confidently, in spite of everything that was at stake. He took off his cap. It seemed like there was nothing more serious he could do for such a day. He poised himself to talk before Jay placed a hand on his shoulder from behind.
“Coach, if you don’t mind, may I?”
He held his cap tightly and then held Jay’s face gently. The old man had seen it all and could still feel humble at times.
“Thank God. I was running out of words for this lot.”
Everyone laughed. It had been a dance of epic proportions to get here. They had fallen on stage, twisted their ankles, suffered their humiliations, but in the end, like all good artists, they’d made it to the final act. The curtain would come down today, and it would come down on them as a group. Jay took centre stage.
"As long as I’ve cared to remember, kicking a ball has been a monumental part of my life. It’s all I’ve cared about. It created a belief within me that life actually meant something. Becoming the player I’m now, has been special to me. But not as special as growing up in this game with a group of players like you guys. We’ve been together for years now and for me, that’ll always be a story that we can be proud of, no matter where we go from here. But for one man, who tirelessly works away in the background to make us as good as we are, to shape us and guide us, I’d like to think that we could make it a little more special for him today.
“I’d like to think that we could go out there and fight the good fight one more time, so that he can have a trophy that he richly deserves. When he didn’t get what he deserved, he just kept his head up and tried again. I see a group of brothers that I’m so glad will be representing the colours of Rosebank, one last time. We are Rosebank. Let them know that. Let’s win that Cup!”
They roared and roared and huddled closer together, screaming ‘Rose
bank’ as a final rallying cry before the war. Jay walked over to OMZ before taking his place on the bench.
“Thank you, Coach. For everything.”
“No, my boy. Thank you.”
He replaced his red cap on his head. Business was to resume. The Rosebank banners were out, loud and proud. Big white sheets were decorated in large blue letters.
‘ZONDI’S ARMY’.
‘MY FAVOURITE GOAL IS A ROSEBANK GOAL’.
’WE’RE HERE TO WIN IT.’
They flashed them all around the arena. There were no banners in the Inkanyambas corner, but they were still noisy. They were chanting incessantly and blowing their vuvuzelas1 as loudly as they could. Who exactly were their followers and where were they from?
James then caught sight of a swarm of fans who had entered the stadium. They were Inkanyambas fans, adorned in their team’s red and black colours. Vinny led them in as if he was the chief instigator of a worshipping group. They followed him blindly towards the fans, who had already gathered within the arena. Together, they all raised the volume to new heights, with the newcomers banging on traditional African drums and blowing more vuvuzelas. Vinny marched over to Zondi and saluted him.
“Good luck, old man. You’re going to need it.” Jay rushed over.
“The fan split was supposed to be 50-50. How did you get this many in?”
“Shame. Are the rich worried that the poor are more popular than they are? If you must know, I’m old friends with the chief architect who designed this lovely arena. I helped boost his capital when he was trying to raise funds to build schools around the country. What can I say? I care about the kids. So, as a small thank you he let me have a few extra tickets.”
Jay moved right into Vinny’s face, his nose almost grazing the man’s chin
“We’ll still beat you. Even with your tricks.”
“And how much say will you have over that? You gonna change everything in half a game?”
“Enough. Jay, take a seat. The game is going to start.”
Zondi ushered Jay aside as the boy kept eyeing Vinny.
Jay eventually took his coach’s orders and retreated towards the other Rosebank subs. He needed to save whatever energy his strained ankle would allow him to use out there. Vinny winked at him and made his way to his team. Thishen stood powerfully in their huddle, amongst boys that were just as well-built and athletic as he was. Their back muscles were visible through their shirts as they bent over in their circle. They boorishly agreed with whatever orders Vinny had given them. The expertly cut grass and the perfectly painted white lines awaited the players.
It may not have seemed like Soweto anymore, but this was what the city stood for: Change and hope. The ref wore a bright-yellow, nylon shirt and tight black shorts. He was a short man, even shorter than some of the high school boys out there. He was also the most powerful in the arena—thanks to that little red whistle draped around his neck. He blew it assertively to remind the boys who was in charge and called the captains over to the centre circle. It was time for the coin toss.
A little girl, with white and blue ribbons in her hair and the most glorious of smiles, ran over in a Rosebank kit that was two sizes too big for her. She handed a coin to Rosebank’s Thabo Shabangu, who winked at her and patted her on the head. She was his niece and although she was too young to truly understand the magnitude of this game, the excitement of seeing her uncle centre stage before this magnificent contest, made her appreciate the moment. One day, she’d grow up and truly realise how much it meant being in that circle for all those seconds. The ref tossed the coin and Thabo yelled ‘heads!’ Heads it was.
He could either choose which goalmouth to attack first or choose the kick-off. The goalmouth did not really matter, for unlike in professional football, there were no fans sitting behind either goal. They were perched on opposite touchlines. James found it rather strange when Thabo did not opt for the kick-off but chose rather to attack a certain goal-mouth first.
The captains shook hands and Thishen squeezed a little tighter to make his presence felt. “I see you’re already giving the ball away. Get used to it. That’s going to happen all afternoon.”
“Don’t be so sure. I thought I’d do my bit of charity now. ’Cos you ain’t gonna get any on the field.”
Thabo stood his ground. James had heard that he never backed down from a tackle or from a confrontation. Rosebank would need someone like that in their ranks today. The Inkanyambas gladly took their kick-off as soon as the ref blew his whistle. The crowd roared from each touchline and the final was underway.
The Inkanyambas were quick to the ball, moving it around as easily as Rosebank had been doing the whole season. They had two central midfielders, who were as powerful as ever and won almost every tackle in the middle of the park. They also had another midfielder, Njabulo Dlamini, who sat just in front of the two centre-mid pairing. He would receive the ball from and orchestrate everything going forward. He was dictating the pace for their side, with short, quick passes to start an attack or long drives to pick out teammates and give his team a chance to go forward.
The Inkanyambas all complemented each other perfectly on the field, in a formation that was spearheaded by Thishen as the lone striker up front. Rosebank knew that they were in for an epic tussle, but they themselves were fairly equipped for the challenge. Zondi decided to play four cautious defenders at the back, but he made sure that he had enough firepower in attack. With Jay not playing, Zondi had opted for two strikers up front. Usually, Jay would be up there alone and just like Thishen, he’d be the focal point for all attacks.
The two Rosebank strikers for today, Glen Newton and Neil Perry, were not as skilful as Jay, but they worked extremely hard for the team. As with most finals, the opening phase was fairly tense. Both sides were scared to make mistakes, so their usual brand of exciting football was muted. The Inkanyambas were slightly more adventurous as they moved the ball better and seemed to be a little quicker. How had Vinny trained them so well, seeing that not long ago, these were fairly impoverished kids?
For a split-second, James felt that Vinny had done something good for once, shortly before he replayed Jay’s father being shot, in his mind. The police had surely already been alerted to the staged act of homicide. Linda would have gone to them by now, and he was hiding here, in the most public space.
Vinny’s team was gaining the upper hand and was slowly shedding the nerves that made them cautious in the beginning. It was one-way traffic and seemed like only a matter of minutes before Rosebank would eventually concede a goal. The defence tried its best but soon began to look vulnerable. The Inkanyambas players were ghosting past them with frightening pace and were pulling off tricks with the ball that made it hard for the Rosebank boys to concentrate and retain possession.
The Inkanyambas fans grew louder and louder, with their vuvuzelas baying for blood. After yet another Inkanyambas attack, the ball fell to Thishen who hit a thunderous strike towards goal. It cannoned off the post and in turn, fell to one of Rosebank’s midfielders. He played a hopeful ball forward to Glen, who shielded the ball from two defenders who could not get it off him. A third joined in and eventually, the striker was hacked to the ground.
Both Rosebank’s central defenders moved forward for the free-kick, which Keith was going to take from the left- hand side. He paused and assessed his options, whilst the Inkanyambas fans shouted out profanities to put him off. It didn’t work. He whipped in an absolute beauty which was begging to be headed. Thabo obliged. He rose above everyone to meet the ball perfectly with his head and it crashed past the keeper who did not even move. The Rosebank supporters found their voice and Thabo ran over to them to celebrate. He removed his arm band and kissed it in front of them. A captain’s goal on the biggest occasion ever.
Rosebank led after 22 minutes and for once this season, it was a lead they did not deserve. Would they care about that? Certainly not. Eight minutes until half-time and if they could get into the break w
ith this score-line, Zondi would be more than happy.
A minute later, that all went out the window. Thabo had scuffed his clearance from an Inkanyambas free-kick and it had fallen to Njabulo, outside the box. It bounced perfectly for him to hit on the half-volley and that is exactly what everyone had anticipated him to do. Rosebank defenders lunged towards him to make the block, but the shot never came. Instead, he lofted the ball over their committed bodies and into the path of Thishen, who blasted it home.
Thishen smirked as he ran back to his half after the goal. He had put his arm across the Rosebank defender and had leant over him illegally. He had also somehow sneakily put his foot over the other boy, who went down which opened up the path for him to score. He’d conned the ref and got his side level. A minute before half-time, the Inkanyambas effortlessly moved the ball forward again, with their fans frantically urging them on. Njabulo played a peach of a pass out to the right and an Inkanyambas player crossed the ball in, without taking a first touch.
His quick thinking didn’t allow Rosebank time to adjust their defence to deal with the danger and Thishen headed towards the goal with a quick flick of his head. Had Warren been in goal for Rosebank, he might have saved it. It was a good header, but one a good keeper would have kept out. Rosebank had their second-choice keeper, Brian Streanie, in there today, and the lack of match practice meant that he could not get that far across to force the ball wide.
The ball looped into the net. The timing of the goal was ghastly and conceding to a striker who thrived off his own ego had given the Inkanyambas an advantage that they had so desperately sought after dominating the first half. Thishen peeled away from everyone to celebrate in front of the Inkanyambas fans. It was not a celebration for them. When he dusted his shoulders off in front of them, it was not a joyous acknowledgement of being part of such a wonderful game but rather a selfish act of glorifying himself.
At half-time, Rosebank did not know what to think. The tide had swept them away, but more worryingly, how much rougher would it get? The scene was set. He had to enter. Rosebank silently prayed and got their wish shortly after. The crowd roared when he removed his sports-jacket. Never had they been so grateful to see the back of the number-seven shirt glint in the Sowetan sun. He strode onto the field and the first thing that he did was clap towards the spectators. They applauded back, arms proudly in the air. Win or lose, it would be done together. Jay placed the ball in the centre circle and was poised to take the kick off with Glen. Neil had been the one to make way. Thishen stood directly opposite them, spitting on the ground.